Interlude - Mirabelle 3

“Father, why does mother look different from the servants?” Mirabelle asked, tilting her small head to the side. Her twin pigtails lopped haphazardly, framing her young face. She sat begrudgingly on her father’s lap in the dining hall. From him, the smell of cedar tickled her nose, the scent that followed her father as far back as she could remember. Arther extended his hand forward, rubbing the head of the curious girl. His lips curled into a smile. 

“Your mother looks different because she is different. She is a demon.”

Mira’s brows furrowed. She’d heard of demons before — monstrous creatures lurking in the night— but hadn’t expected her mother to be of their kind. Sure, she had horns, but Mira thought they were awe-inspiring, no less fearsome than the adventurers she’d heard tales of from the maidservants. Her mother was a kind woman with a scolding voice; her wrath far exceeded that of the dragons she’d read of in the family library.

Her eyes widened. “Does that mean mother is a monster?” 

“No more than the maids who serve her,” He said, “Though that could be argued — if considering the sharpness of her tongue.”

Mira giggled. She pushed from her father’s lap, though not before grabbing a lemon cookie from the table - her favorite. She shoved it into her mouth, holding it with her teeth, before she scampered from the dining hall and her father’s chiding voice. She finished the treat in three large bites, chewing on it like a squirrel. She ran to the family library, eager to continue her journey into unknown lands and untold tales. The readiness of her gait was halted by a hand clenching tight to her arm as she rounded a corner.

“Mirabelle Leyland,” A voice called, “Where do you think you are going?”

Mira’s body froze in horror. She tried to scramble from the grip, but a pair of delicate, feminine hands hooked around her in an iron vise. Her feet scrambled against the floor for purchase until her weight was lifted into her mother’s arms. Mira scowled.

A stern, yet warm face looked down on her, her elegant horns gleaming in the lamplight. Mira’s face fell into a disappointed grimace as their gazes met. “Hello, mother.” She wanted to bite and claw her to escape, but Mira’s temper seldom helped against her mother.

Anna frowned. “Off to the library again?”

Mira didn’t answer, squirming against the embrace.

“You have not attended your lessons in days, Mira.”

Her lips fell into a pout. “I hate them.” 

Anna’s lips grew taut, and she walked onwards. Mirabelle gave up the fight, resigned to hours of lectures and pinching and pulling from the tutors she’d been assigned. She didn’t care for it. Hours of agony spent learning some foolish skill like embroidery when she could be reading about adventures! She turned her head, pondering.

“Mother, why don’t I have horns?”

Anna’s steps halted. She looked down at the floor, her face tense. “Have the maids been talking again?” Her voice was low, dangerous. 

Mira shook her head. “I’m a demon too, right? Why haven’t mine grown in yet?”

Anna set her daughter down, her fingers lingering in a loving touch. She didn’t speak for a few seconds before she kneeled down to Mira’s height, matching their faces. She reached out, pinching Mira’s cheeks in each hand.

“Your mother is a full demon,” She said, “While you are half human. Some traits are not passed on by blood in half.”

She squirmed from her mother’s grip, pulling her cheeks free. Mira frowned, digging her toe into the ground as she thought. Her mother was the strongest person she knew — even Father had to listen to her. Those horns were beautiful, something everyone in the house respected, revered. She’d heard the maids discussing them multiple times, though she knew not always what their words had meant. Who wouldn’t want horns? A pang of regret passed through her as she raised her fingers delicately to her forehead.

Anna took her hands, lowering them into a firm grip. 

“You may not understand now,” She began, “But in time, you will be thankful to have been born as you are. Beautiful, bright, my little belle.” She kissed Mira’s forehead. 

“As I am.”

Those words echoed in Mira’s mind as she felt the wetness of her mother’s kiss, even years later. Her hand raised, wiping away the phantom memory that entered her mind as she and Draven walked down the street, milling about those who lived and worked on the second layer of Elanis. The purple light mixed in with the peaking rays of sunlight that rarely made their way in. 

Her thoughts lingered on her mother’s face — the one in her memories, the bright, loving, formidable woman, and not the shell she had become. That was something she couldn’t accept. That the memory had been long tainted by years of seeing her light fade into a whimpering glimmer. Had Aria not intervened, the last memories, the ones she would carry to her grave, would be of her mother’s wasting body and the stench that poured from her. 

For that reason alone, Mira would follow Aria into death. Putting aside her carefree innocence, her energetic, almost cat-like mischievousness, Aria was simply a beacon of light in what Mira had seen as a desolate world. How could one person be so bright? 

Not to say that Gale was any less brilliant. She had never seen such devotion, such loyalty, to the point that even she, as a person with no interest in romantic affairs, thought it might be nice to have someone by her side, though not in that way.

Her lips curled as she thought of the scene she and Draven had escaped from. She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. They would need separate rooms on their journey, she was certain of that. The awkwardness she had felt faded, replaced by a lingering resentment of the man standing next to her.

Draven walked with a casual ease, his hair sticking up in strange directions as he sauntered towards his destination. His cocksure attitude seemed unrepentant of his unruly appearance. Mira eyed him warily. Why was he here? Why had he appeared with her friends, and what did he want, really? As if it could be as simple as revenge. 

Her lips twitched as she thought of painstakingly washing the black soot from her hair. It had been a curious sight to see her hair draped in her father’s colors, though an arduous affair to return it to her mother’s. Her finger curled around a strand of hair as she considered stabbing him.

His head turned towards her lazily. “You’ve been staring for quite some time. See something you like?”

“A fitting sheath for my spear, perhaps.”

“Interesting,” He said, “I haven’t been propositioned in that way by a woman before.”

Mira’s face flushed in embarrassment. “Must you be so crude?” Her heart boiled as the image of Henry raised in her mind. Could they be related? Equally infuriating, if not. Perhaps her fist would be an equally suitable punishment?

She turned her head, refusing to engage further. She had long since learned with Henry that such conversations rarely moved from crass jokes. The smells of food wafted in the air, stirring Mirabelle’s hunger. She rubbed a bit of drool from the side of her mouth. She pushed the thought from her mind. Her favorite indulgences were hardly a priority. Food was an excuse she had followed to escape the promiscuous activities of her party members. 

Mira turned her thoughts towards the incident in the cathedral. The man she had met. That familiar set of eyes. It was not their first meeting. Mira had met him as a child, a guest of her mother’s, a person who left an impression on her through his decidedly rude and dismissive behavior towards her parents. What had he said? Her brain fogged as she tried to recall the memories. Only vague images of a fight with her father lingered. 

They washed away, mist on a white canvas. The image of his short, broken horns, hidden under his hair, lingered on her brain. Why had he been playing as the pope’s butler? Why had he worked as Sylvia’s hired hand?

He had let himself be pushed from the church in their battle, scattering the crowd with a fierce yell and a few slashes of his dagger. She recalled the words he’d said after. 

“Come with me.”

“Your family needs you.”

It had been a chance encounter, yet he seemed surprised, elated even, when he recognized her. “Little Mira, all grown up.”

She shivered. Why did his gaze seem possessive? Opportunistic? When she’d refused, he had attacked her in a crazed state. It had taken considerable effort to put him down. His last moments were spent reaching towards her, clutching as if at a great treasure. 

My family…?

A light tap on her forehead brought her back to reality. The smell of food wafted in front of her nose, followed by the heat of it. Draven passed her a handful of street skewers.

Mira looked around in surprise. Had they arrived already? Had she been so deep in her thoughts as to not notice? She instinctively took the food, her eyes catching on it. Her stomach rumbled, and a shame crossed her mind. 

She recalled her mother’s incessant scolding at the taste for stall food she’d acquired when attending a festival as a child. She looked up at Draven, thankful.

His hand met her gaze, palm upwards, wanting. Mira’s eyebrow twitched. 

“Pay your share,” He said. 

Mira begrudgingly reached into the pouch at her side, pulling free a few coins. She had a healthy supply to last their journey, but careless spending was a habit she’d not developed. Her work as an adventurer had given her a deep appreciation for the money her peers often swung around without care.

She paid the better part of the share, and they found a bench to eat at. Aria and Gale’s portions laid wrapped in a covering. Draven leaned back, lifting one foot over the other, and casually ate as they watched the crowd pass by. 

The people milled like ants, streaming between buildings in a great frenzy, as if the stone beneath their feet would set as the sun did. Mira thought that was a curious thing. She had been there for a short time, but her usually excellent hold on time was thrown off by the ever-present light. How could they live in a place which was always lit? She looked around, taking in the structures surrounding them. 

The rough-hewn buildings of the fourth layer could not be seen, instead replaced by the lived-in yet fanciful architecture of craftsmen in the throes of their work. Some buildings were beautiful works, yet half-constructed, surrounded by equally wonderful unfinished projects. She spotted a house of simple make, nearly a bare box, yet surrounded by wonderfully carved statues of figures she recognized from the area’s gods. Navira was the most splendid, perhaps by ordinance of the church, but the others were crafted with great care.

“What are you looking at?”

Draven’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glared at him. “Must you speak and ruin the moment?”

“I must say,” He said, “I’m feeling a bit of hostility. Haven’t we already settled our debt?”

Mira huffed. “If you speak of the prior incident, then yes we are settled on the account, but your attitude and the circumstances of your appearance are concerning.”

“Yet I was the one who saved your friends,” He said, “While you were having a date with a butler.”

Mira stood and threw her skewer into his shirt, dirtying it. He looked down, frowning. “Really?”

Her fingers flexed, begging to grasp a weapon. She took a breath, calming her temper. 

One. Two. Three. Four. 

Her usual expression settled in again. “That was unnecessary. I apologize.”

Draven stood as well, gingerly dabbing the stains on his shirt with a handkerchief he’d pulled from an unseen pocket. “Apology accepted.”

He leaned down, picked the food from the floor, and took a bite from it. He didn’t seem to  mind the filth that lined its side. Draven walked back the direction they came, saying nothing else. 

Mira grabbed her party’s food and followed, a rush of shame flowing in her heart. She sighed. “Your temper is frightening,” her father had said, “Not befitting a lady.” 

How true that was. It was her temper that led to her frequently kicking in her father’s doors after her mother had fallen sick, questioning his decisions. She regretted nothing but the scathing comments others spoke of about her upbringing. Her nature as a demon. The topic was forbidden in front of Arthur, but a popular subject amongst nobility. The family that accepted demon filth into the dukedom.

She clenched her fist. Her nature as a half-demon was something that troubled her, especially so when she’d brought Aria to see her mother. Would she flinch? Curse? Refuse treatment? So many fears had eaten her away inside as she led Aria upstairs that she’d even ignored her servants. The look on Aria’s face when she saw her mother lingered in her eyes. 

Aria had stared at her horns in wonder. Surprised at the extent of her sickness, yes, but those widened eyes, that childlike fascination at her horns made Mirabelle smile. Aria had not asked questions, not condemned them, not laughed; Aria risked her livelihood and health to heal her mother, simply because she was asked. Mira’s hand lifted to her forehead, the sudden desire she hadn’t felt since childhood returning. 

Mira smiled as she thought that, if it were them, perhaps being different wasn’t altogether a bad thing.